Page 23 of The Equation of Us
Yet.
Chapter Nine
Off Balance
Nora
“I still don’t understand why we’re spending our free period at the hockey rink,” Sadie says, pulling her bright pink beanie lower over her ears as we climb the metal bleachers. “It’s freezing in here.”
“I told you,” I say, trying to sound casual. “It’s for our biopsych project. We’re studying competitive performance under pressure.”
“Uh-huh.” Sadie gives me a sidelong glance that says she’s not buying it. “And it’s just a coincidence that Dean Carter is on the ice right now?”
“I didn’t even know he’d be practicing,” I lie, settling onto the cold bench.
The truth is, I memorized his practice schedule days ago. Not in a creepy way—I just happened to notice the team’s calendar posted outside the athletic center. And I just happened to suggest to Sadie that we should take a study break right when I knew they’d be on the ice.
Totally normal behavior.
The rink is mostly empty this time of day—just a few other students scattered in the stands, probably friends or girlfriendsof players. The team is already in the middle of drills, moving in organized chaos across the gleaming surface.
I spot Dean immediately.
It’s not just the number on his jersey—though I’ve somehow committed that to memory too. It’s the way he moves. Controlled but fluid, like every motion has a purpose. Like gravity is just a suggestion, not a law.
“Wow,” Sadie says beside me, following my gaze. “Carter’s actually good. I always assumed hockey players were just testosterone wrapped in pads.”
“He’s more than that,” I say automatically, then wince when I see her eyebrows shoot up.
“Oh really? And how would you know?”
I busy myself with unwrapping my scarf. “Just from tutoring him. And the project.”
But my eyes are drawn back to the ice, to Dean, like there’s a magnetic pull I can’t resist.
I’ve never seen him in his element like this. In class, in tutoring sessions, even in my dorm room, he’s contained—restrained, almost. Every movement measured, every word carefully chosen.
But here?
He’s power in motion. His shoulders—broader than I’d realized—shift under his jersey as he changes direction, lightning-quick. When he steals the puck from another player with a precise flick of his stick, I feel a flutter low in my stomach.
“Oh my god,” Sadie whispers beside me. “You’re practically drooling.”
“I am not,” I protest, but I can feel my cheeks heating up despite the chill.
The coach blows a whistle, and the players circle up for instruction. I watch Dean’s profile as he listens, the sharp line ofhis jaw, the focused intensity in his stance. He nods at something the coach says, then breaks away when they’re dismissed.
As he skates back toward center ice, something changes. One of his teammates—I recognize Gavin, the team captain—says something that makes Dean break into a rare, full smile. The transformation is startling. His whole face lights up, years dropping away. He laughs, the sound carrying across the ice, and playfully checks Gavin into the boards.
They tussle briefly, like oversized puppies, before the coach yells at them to focus. Dean immediately straightens, back to business, but there’s still a hint of that smile at the corner of his mouth.
I can’t look away.
“Okay,” Sadie says, nudging me with her elbow. “What’s the story? For real this time.”
“There’s no story,” I say, still watching Dean as he sets up for the next drill.
“Nora.” She turns to face me fully. “Don’t lie to me. I’ve seen you turn down perfectly nice, incredibly hot guys without a second thought. But suddenly you’re dragging me to a hockey practice in subzero temperatures to watch Dean Carter skate around? Something’s up.”
